


Polyhex Quarantine Blues

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Death Threats, Enemies to Lovers, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Major Character Injury, Plague, Virus, quarantine au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24480751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: In quarantine lockdown with the DJD at a hotel in Polyhex, Tarn gets an unexpected comm from the last person he'd ever expected to want to talk to him.  ...You know you've been locked down too long when you start looking forward to weekly chats with a sworn enemy.
Relationships: Deathsaurus/Tarn
Comments: 190
Kudos: 206





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> Quarantine AU: pretty much the same as canon up until around the end of MTMTE Season 1, when the Cosmic Rust virus (thank you G1 cartoon) puts Cybertron into quarantine lockdown, a state that most of us are pretty familiar with IRL. 
> 
> From there, the story is not really about viruses or being sick, it's more about a pretext for long-distance enemies-to-lovers.
> 
> Shoutout to redredribbons as the original spark for this story was inspired by the thought of Deathsaurus and Tarn sending initially-hostile Christmas cards to one another. Current circumstances brought the idea back to my mind.
> 
> This is absolutely me being gratuitously self-indulgent; you were warned.
> 
> #

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 1_

Tarn couldn’t possibly have heard correctly. “I’m sorry…could you repeat that?” 

“Sir, Polyhex is in lockdown to prevent the spread of Cosmic Rust.” The Seeker in his doorway—Nova Storm or Sunstorm, Tarn wasn’t sure which—trembled under Tarn’s gaze. “There’s no passage in or out of the city. Public events are cancelled. Shops, eateries and bars are closed. Military maneuvers are on hold unless we are fired upon. Only essential personnel may report to their jobs. Everyone else is expected to stay in their hab and await further instructions.” The Seeker fidgeted. “You, um, you probably already know that, but I was told I had to inform all guests regardless.” 

Tarn did not, in fact, already know that. He felt grateful for the mask which hid what was doubtlessly an expression of disappointment. 

Megatron had put Polyhex into lockdown, and he hadn’t called Tarn to tell him? He’d expected Tarn to get the news the way everyone else did? 

Tarn had turned off all notifications on his datapad in favour of sipping a glass of triple filtered engex and waiting for Megatron to call him. Instead, he’d gotten a chime at his door. Nova-or-Sun-Storm. 

The Seeker held out a datapad. “I, ah, I brought this datapad with hotel staff contact numbers if there’s anything you require: fuel, amenities, medical supplies…” 

Tarn almost laughed. There was no way he could just order up a full round of Nuke for himself and his Decepticon Justice Division from hotel room service. 

He swallowed it down as he accepted the datapad. The “Tarn” persona was dignified and imperious and absolutely not the kind of person to burst out into gales of hysterical laughter at the notion of being trapped inside his hotel suite. The panic clawing at the edges of his mind was something he could not afford to acknowledge until his public performance was over. 

Nova-or-Sun-Storm was still standing there, clearly frightened—as he should be, Tarn had not put forth so much effort cultivating his persona for nothing—but Tarn sensed that terrorizing the Seeker would do nothing to solve the problem at hand. Helex and Tesarus found that sort of thing funny, but Tarn had always considered it to be beneath him. 

“At ease, Storm…ah…” 

The Seeker did not dare correct him. 

Sometimes his persona was exhausting. 

“Your name?” Tarn inquired. 

“Sunstorm, sir.” 

“Very good. You should be pleased I didn’t know it. It means you aren’t currently on The List.” 

The Seeker’s relief was clearly visible. Tarn almost wondered if, perhaps, Sunstorm ought to be on the List after all. He would get Kaon to look into that later. 

In the meantime… “I wonder what you did, Sunstorm, to be given the job of tending to the mechanisms in this hotel during the lockdown.” 

“Sir, I’d like to boast about my good manners and combat proficiency, but in all honesty, I lost a bet. That said, I _am_ well-versed in Vosian hospitality and would like to make your stay an enjoyable one, under the circumstances.” 

Right. The circumstances. 

The DJD were not supposed to be in Polyhex long. Just a brief meeting with Decepticon high command, then a few days of alleged rest and relaxation in which the team would finalize their strike plan for the next mechanism on The List. Tarn hoped to step out during those few days to meet with Megatron, if he could. _Privately_. 

Dimly, Tarn remembered hearing something about the Cosmic Rust virus during the staff meeting. He’d not been paying attention. Starscream had been talking, and Tarn had always resented the amount of attention Starscream got from everyone else, especially Megatron. The Cosmic Rust virus outbreaks were occurring in Autobot territory and a few border towns like Uraya. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing that Tarn would ever have to worry about. 

It was unthinkable that in the course of just a few days, the Cosmic Rust would become the thing on every Cybertronian’s mind. 

Tarn had thought…well, he’d thought that Megatron had been brushing him off when he said he didn’t have time to discuss the List or meet with Tarn for dinner thanks to the Cosmic Rust. After trying both a professional angle and a social angle to get Megatron’s attention, Tarn had suspected that Megatron was avoiding him. He supposed the silver lining of the situation was that Megatron truly had been busy managing a crisis. 

But now… 

Now the _Peaceful Tyranny_ was grounded and the DJD were stuck in a hotel in Polyhex for the foreseeable future, hiding from an alien virus! 

Tarn had no idea what to do next. He stood there in front of Sunstorm, struck dumb, and the Seeker, too terrified to move, stared at him in frozen horror. The tableau broke when Sunstorm’s comm link buzzed. “Excuse me?” Sunstorm said. 

It was a question. Tarn nodded permission. 

Sunstorm muttered into his comm and then looked up at Tarn again. “You have a call, sir. Coming in through the hotel switchboard. They contacted Information and asked to be patched through to you.” 

Tarn sighed. Megatron, surely. The Decepticon Justice Division must be exempt from Polyhex’s lockdown. They were, of course, _essential personnel_. 

“I’ll take it in my quarters,” Tarn said. 

# 

Tarn walked through the living room of his opulent hotel suite and into a small hallway corridor, where he bypassed his temporary office and went straight to the bedroom. He couldn’t be so crass as to greet Megatron from his berth, but there was a nice overstuffed armchair in the berthroom, with soft blankets and an energon service on a little cart. Tarn settled down in the chair, deciding to pour himself a drink later: he mustn’t keep Megatron waiting. He activated the holo projector. “Hello?” 

The image that flickered to life as a three-dimensional hologram was not Megatron’s. 

“Yeah, hi, is this the Decepticon Justice Division?” 

Tarn blinked, surprised, as he tried to place the face of the mechanism looking at him. 

His first thought was that the mech was ugly, in the way of Decepticons whose aesthetic was based around presenting a horrifying visage with the intention of frightening their enemies. It was a look favoured by MTOs, who thought that bestial features and visible fangs and sharp edges and plenty of weapons was what made a mech scary. The old Vos had favoured such a look, and look at what he’d turned out to be. No, Tarn was glad none of his DJD fancied this aesthetic now. It was crude theatre, nothing more. When you were a master of torment, your form spoke for itself. 

_Form_ . 

Tarn noted the wings on the mech’s back—not Seeker wings. The paws that rested on his shoulders like pauldrons. The beaked helm that cast his optics into shadow. The second set of eyes on the helm, which had been stylized to looked like the beaked head of some monstrous bird creature. 

Tarn knew exactly what group he was dealing with. Most beastformers, when they weren’t embracing that tacky horrify-your-enemies aesthetic, tried to hide their true nature. There was only one group that wore animal helms even in their robot modes. Only one group that _flaunted_ it. 

That meant that the gold chevrons on the mech’s crest weren’t just the flash of a mech who was trying too hard. Those were the crown of a leader, and the leader of that bunch was… 

“Deathsaurus,” Tarn said. He was pleased to have matched this face with the name on his List. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Deathsaurus grinned. His fangs—a double set—glinted in the light. “Frag me, if it isn’t Tarn himself.” 

Tarn was not used to mechanisms smiling at the sight of him. He decided he’d take Sunstorm’s awkward yet understandable fear over Deathsaurus’s oddly casual demeanor. It was…uncanny. 

“Were you looking for one of my men, perhaps?” Tarn inquired, wondering what business the rogue general might have with someone in the DJD. 

“Nah.” Deathsaurus leaned forward, resting his elbow on a rather cluttered table and leaning his left cheek into his palm. “I was wondering if it’s true, what I heard. That Cybertron is on lockdown because of the Cosmic Rust virus.” 

Tarn poured himself a generous serving of triple-filtered engex, making sure to subtly turn the label on the bottle towards the camera. He wondered if Deathsaurus understood the value of the vintage he was looking at. 

“It is,” Tarn said, because for the life of him he could not think of any reason to lie. Deathsaurus would see through any falsehood after a little basic research. 

In fact…that was the real mystery here. 

“But you could have learned that from any reputable news service,” Tarn mused. He sipped at his drink through a curly straw. “Why, of all people to ask, would you ask _me_?” 

Deathsaurus’s grin got very large and very, very predatory. “Then I suppose you’re not coming to kill me any time soon, are you?” 

Tarn choked on his drink. 

He’d been surprised to take a call from Deathsaurus, but he’d had a few guesses as to why the rogue warlord might be calling. To beg for mercy, perhaps. Or to offer a bargain: to turn in someone else in exchange for mercy. Tarn didn’t do mercy, but he sometimes pretended to consider bargains. The DJD got excellent intelligence that way. 

Tarn had never had a target call him for the sole purpose of _taunting him_. 

Deathsaurus smiled. All four optics sparkled with malicious delight. “Poor Tarn, trapped on Cybertron, far away from me.” 

“Is _that_ all you wanted?” Tarn demanded. 

Deathsaurus pretended to think. “No, I thought I should also mention that we’re _not_ on lockdown out here on the Galactic Rim. In fact, I might even do a big shore leave with the crew. Now that we know we don’t have to worry about you for a while.” 

Tarn spluttered. He raised his hand just a little too late to avoid spraying a few droplets of engex. “How…how _dare…_ ” 

“Oh, it’s not so bad. Looks like you’ve got a pretty nice place to hole up in.” 

Tarn’s gaze flicked around the hotel room. Deathsaurus was not wrong. This might not be the Fairweather Spire in Vos, but it was the finest hotel in Polyhex and certainly nicer than anything one might find in Kaon or Uraya. 

“I suppose,” Tarn admitted. 

“So sit back, order room service, and enjoy having the DJD not kill people for a while. I know I will!” Deathsaurus flashed him that nasty smile again. 

“Why, you…” 

The connection dropped. 

Tarn sat there for a long time, staring into silence, listening to the buzz of his comm link. 


	2. Day 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind feedback on my self indulgent AU. Please enjoy Chapter 2!

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 8_

Tarn activated his comm to call room service, and then thought better of it. An unpleasant notion crossed his mind: he was doing exactly what Deathsaurus had told him to do. 

For the past week, he and his DJD had loafed around the hotel, doing plenty of recharging. They’d gotten permission to send one of their number to the _Peaceful Tyranny_ to retrieve necessities, and they’d sent Tesarus, for two reasons: he was physically able to carry the most, and he was the most agitated at staying indoors. 

Tarn decided he would drink the boring fuel that he already had for another night rather than do what Deathsaurus had suggested. 

Much to Tarn’s dismay, he and the DJD were not considered _essential services_. Tarn wanted to believe that Megatron wanted to protect his valuable personal hit squad. What Megatron had actually said – in their very brief mid-week comm call – was that the sight or even the hint of the DJD was enough to encourage Decepticons to break quarantine and, in doing so, endanger everyone. He was officially putting all DJD activities on hold until the crisis was over. Tarn didn’t know who was enforcing the quarantine, but it certainly wasn’t the DJD. 

Right now, the rest of the DJD were involved in an intense four-way video game tournament in Tesarus’s room, with Nickel providing some degree of adult supervision and keeping the Pet company while Kaon played. Tarn was not inclined to join them. He found video games to be noisy and tiresome. He also didn’t like being handily defeated by his own crew, especially at such a frivolous diversion. He’d rather stay to himself tonight and read some poetry, or maybe… 

Truth be told, he wanted to talk to Megatron, but it turned out that Megatron was _otherwise occupied_. Megatron had ended up in lockdown with Starscream, _imagine that_. Now he wasn’t answering his comm. 

Even Tarn’s favourite poems could not stop his mind from imagining, in lurid detail, what Megatron and Starscream might be doing _at this very second._

Tarn was imagining a _particularly_ graphic scenario when his comm link buzzed and he jumped. 

“Hello?” he said into the line, grateful for the interruption as he activated his holoprojector. 

“What’cha doin’?” came the reply. Sound only, no picture. The holo displayed only static. 

Tarn blinked. _What’cha doin’?_ Not only was that not the correct way to greet the head of the DJD, it wasn’t really the correct way to greet _anyone_ , other than perhaps a sibling or very close friends. Tarn had been Forged alone and he did not have very close friends, not any more. He had his team, who had all been taught to show him the proper deference, and he had Megatron, and he had a number of co-worker type acquaintances within Decepticon high command, and he had a List of targets. 

For a moment he wondered if it was one of his fellow Outliers. Then reason caught up to curiosity and dismissed that possibility. He’d burned all his bridges with Skids and Mirage and Windcharger. Roller was gone. And if Trailbreaker knew that Glitch was Tarn, he wouldn’t be talking to him so carelessly. 

“I think you have the wrong number,” Tarn said icily. 

“Aww. Come on. You really have something better to do tonight than chat with me?” 

That stung. Tarn wasn’t used to being casually insulted. In fact, there was only one mech in recent memory who would have the audacity to… 

“Deathsaurus? Is that you?” 

“So you do remember.” 

Tarn could hardly think of what to say. “Did you know that civilized mechanisms use the visual feed in conjunction with the audio feed?”   
“Sorry, I’m in a place where visual links cost a fortune.” The apology sounded passibly sincere. 

“Yet you’re spending what money you have calling me to taunt me.” 

“I thought you’d get lonely in quarantine.” 

Tarn was absolutely not going to tell Deathsaurus that he was, in fact, lonely in quarantine. Or that he’d been lonely before quarantine. He especially would not admit it when it was obvious that Deathsaurus was not stuck on his Warworld. “I thought you’d be pleased about that.” 

“If I wanted you to be lonely, would I be calling you? It seems counterproductive.” 

“Well then, what about you? Surely a Warworld Commander has other priorities to occupy his time.” 

“Eh. My crew deserves to have a little fun once in a while without their commanding officer looking over their shoulders.” 

Tarn felt a strange twist in his chest. Wasn’t that exactly what he was doing? Letting the DJD blow off steam enjoying a hobby that they all enjoyed and he didn’t? Providing them an evening of freedom from their commander’s evaluation? “I see. Yes.” 

“Plus, I…Well. You’ve read my file, you know how old I am, and that most of my crew are even younger, so you’ll understand what I mean when I say I’m rather envious of their ability to be young and stupid. Act on impulse, take risks, make foolish mistakes.” 

Tarn sighed involuntarily. Yes, he remembered doing those kinds of things. The last big stupid thing he’d done was slip out of the Dugout, along with his new friend Amp, to attend one of Megatron’s rallies in Kaon. This despite the fact that Megatron had already declared war. 

Tarn wished he knew what foolish thing he’d done that had cost him his head and his hands. What he wouldn’t give if only he could have taken it back. 

That was, perhaps, the worst part of it. The mechanisms who had arrested and mutilated him had never told him precisely _how_ they had known he was guilty of _seditious conduct_. They had read him the charges and given him a defender, yes, but he had stood in front of that defender wondering what incidents he should admit to and which the authorities did not yet know about. He felt as though anything he said to his own defender would become yet more evidence against him. 

It was a technique he used often with the DJD. All they had to do was show up, and mechanisms start spewing apologies for crimes that Tarn wasn’t even aware they had committed. 

Was Deathsaurus about to do the same? 

“Go on,” Tarn said, almost automatically. It had become habit now: to give mechanisms enough rope with which to hang themselves. 

“I don’t ever want to take my envy out on my crew,” Deathsaurus said, swinging the conversation in an entirely different direction. “It’s not their fault. They shouldn’t be punished when they’re the ones doing perfectly normal things.” 

Yes, Deathsaurus had said something about envy, had he not? He was envious of his crew’s ability to make poor choices. 

“And you?” Tarn inquired. 

“I’ve never had the _luxury_ ,” Deathsaurus snarled, though Tarn could sense that his anger was directed not at Tarn but at the situation in general. “When I make mistakes people _die_. I have always had people depending on me. I can’t let my crew suffer for my choices.” 

“You stole them,” Tarn pointed out. “When you deserted.” 

“They chose to stay with me,” Deathsaurus replied. “I gave my crew a choice. Some took it.” 

“Odd that you’d implicate your own crew with your crime.” 

“Would you truly spare them if I’d kidnapped them and kept them by force?” 

Tarn sighed. “Probably not.” A pause. He really had no reason to lie. “No.” 

“And I’m already on your List, so I have nothing to lose if I decide I want to do something impulsive and foolish, like call up the head of the DJD to harrass him on his night off.” Deathsaurus laughed. “I mean, what are you going to do? Resurrect me so you can kill me _twice_?” 

“You do realize I could make your demise particularly unpleasant.” It was true, but Tarn suddenly felt uncomfortable talking about it. 

“Yeah, I also realize you’re gonna make it as gruesome as possible already, and post it all over the extranet to keep other Decepticons in line. Might as well gun for something _really_ spectacular. Wouldn’t want one of those Autopedia entries with the interesting middles and the boring endings.” 

Tarn was well versed in the behaviour of mechanisms with nothing left to lose. Some of them got desperate. Others got _dangerous_. It was much harder to defeat an enemy who didn’t care if he survived his encounter with you. That was why the DJD were all so heavily armoured and such accomplished fighters. Tarn had interviewed his fair share of prospective hopefuls who were artists in a torture chamber but absolutely worthless on a battlefield. They would never have survived an encounter with the likes of Deathsaurus. Tarn was now assured that Deathsaurus was the dangerous sort. 

_I have always had people depending on me._

Something about that statement raised a red flag in Tarn’s brain. 

“Surely it’s not true,” Tarn said, “that you’ve _always_ had someone depending on you.” The Decepticon army didn’t give newly minted MTOs positions of authority. Rank was earned. There had to have been a time when Deathsaurus was fresh off the assembly line, barely able to take care of himself, let alone anyone else. 

Though Tarn supposed that during certain phases of the war, new MTOs tended to die very quickly from the foolish acts of youth. Or minor mistakes. Or simply bad luck. 

Of course, the Cause was more than worth their sacrifices. 

But Tarn could admit that it wasn’t exactly fair. Like so many other things in life. 

“Before Leozack and Lyzack…” Deathsaurus hesitated. “I don’t remember it well. I suppose you’re right, but I don’t recall much about being alone.” 

Tarn had not realized that Deathsaurus had memory issues. He made a note to review Deathsaurus’s file again that night. 

“And now I envy you,” Tarn said on a whim. “I have entirely too many memories of being alone.” 

Damus. Glitch. On the outside, looking in. 

The Commandant of Grindcore, feared…and avoided. 

And tonight, sitting alone in his quarters while his DJD played. 

“Then I guess you won’t mind if I call you again,” Deathsaurus grinned. “Bye!” 

The connection dropped before Tarn could protest. 

A moment later, he realized that he had not intended to protest after all. 


	3. Day 15

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 15_

Tarn sat in his overstuffed chair with a personnel file open on his lap, feeling like a bit of a fool. He had absolutely no reason to expect Deathsaurus to call him, even though it was the end of the week again. 

At that very moment, his comm link buzzed. Tarn connected the call to a display monitor on the table in front of him. 

“Hello, is your energon dispenser running?” 

Tarn raised an optic ridge. An old memory flooded his mind. A foolish game he used to play, long, long ago. 

But it would be such a shame to ruin the joke. 

“Yes,” he said, hesitated a beat, and delivered the punchline in unison with Deathsaurus. “Then you’d better go catch it!” 

Deathsaurus laughed and activated his visual feed. It was good having a visual on the screen. Tarn didn’t often see mechanisms with genuine smiles, other than his own team. 

“Do you want to hear what I’m going to do with it when I catch it?” Tarn teased. 

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll make a memorable video,” Deathsaurus countered. 

All of a sudden Tarn felt uncomfortable. Yes, Deathsaurus was on the List, but did they really have to talk about it so much? Couldn’t they discuss something else until the time came? 

Tarn looked down at the file on his lap. Perhaps they couldn’t. 

“I’ve caught you in a lie, Scimitar,” Tarn murmured. 

“Add _identity theft_ to my List of crimes,” Deathsaurus said, pronouncing _List_ in a particularly meaningful way. 

Tarn blinked. “Wait, what?” 

“What?” Deathsaurus replied, looking as surprised as Tarn felt. 

“I was going to say you were lying about spending your early years alone and having Leozack and Lyzack as your first subordinates…” 

“Oh, you pulled Scimitar’s file too.” Deathsaurus rested his head in his palm, letting his left elbow prop his arm up. “I’d forgotten all about that.” 

“ _Too_.” Implying it was different from Deathsaurus’s. Tarn had found evidence of wrongdoing, all right—much more than he expected. Along with a lot of evidence that didn’t add up. Scimitar’s garden-variety corruption hadn’t meshed with what Tarn knew of Deathsaurus, and now Tarn knew why. His mind drew the connection. “You weren’t lying because this file isn’t about you after all. You stole Scimitar’s identity.” 

“He didn’t want a friend, he wanted a pet…no, a _slave_.” Deathsaurus showed no remorse. 

“Shall I add murder to your List of crimes, then?” 

“It’s got to be there already. So, I’ll have another count of it, then,” he said with the casual air of a mech ordering another round of drinks. “No more counts of assaulting a superior officer, though. I wasn’t technically under his command at the time.” 

“No more…” Tarn spluttered. He scrolled to the bottom of Deathsaurus’s file. “I don’t see assaulting a superior officer on this file at all.” 

“So I _did_ hide the evidence.” Deathsaurus looked pleased with himself. 

“How many more counts of murder should be here?” Tarn asked dryly. 

“How many have you got?” 

“I should move you farther up the List for these newly discovered infractions. You’re clearly more dangerous than your current ranking suggests.” 

Tarn realized as he said it that he did not, in fact, want to do it. Moving Deathsaurus up the List would end these little chats much sooner. 

“Ah, I’m being dangerous on the Outer Rim. Where I’m defending Cybertronian interests in dashing style. Posing little to no risk to current Decepticon operations.” 

Tarn felt Deathsaurus’s response grate against his nerves. 

That was what _Megatron_ had said. 

Stealing a Warworld was not only capital theft, but a theft that had included dereliction of duty to a degree that had collapsed an entire Decepticon offensive. The Decepticon strategic plan had relied on Deathsaurus and his Warworld acting as bait to convince the Autobots that the main thrust of the Decepticon attack was in an entirely different sector than the true assault. Deathsaurus’s kleptomania had set back the war effort by more than a century. 

Such an egregious violation could not go unpunished! 

But every time Tarn tried to move the renegade commander up the List, Megatron moved him back down. After all, Deathsaurus was no _further_ risk to the Cause, out there in the back end of nowhere. The DJD really couldn’t spare the time to travel all the way to the Galactic Rim when there were so many urgent problems closer to home. 

In fact, Megatron continued, when the DJD _did_ take Deathsaurus down, the Decepticons would have to have a unit ready to go out to defend Decepticon interests on the Galactic Rim. To do Deathsaurus’s job, in effect. A job he was currently doing of his own volition, at his own expense, with his own people and supplies. Really, if the cost of Deathsaurus doing business was the occasional pirated shipment, it was still far cheaper than trying to support a dedicated garrison out there on the Rim. 

And Decepticon High Command seemed to be in no hurry to organize such a unit. Not while Deathsaurus was doing their work for them. Why would they? 

The thought made Tarn want to rage. You didn’t get excused from the List by being _useful_! 

Not excused, Megatron soothed him. _Delayed._

_Delayed slagging indefinitely,_ Tarn thought uncharitably. 

“You’ve got my file, so you tell me,” Deathsaurus continued. “How many times does it say _more trouble than he’s worth_?” 

“You don’t get excused from the List by being a pain in the aft,” Tarn growled, and he was shocked at himself when he heard the rough words slip from his lips. It was the sort of thing Roller would have said. 

The sort of thing Glitch might have imitated in an attempt to fit in and feel cool. 

“Nah, just spreading the misery around.” Deathsaurus gave the screen a disconcerting double wink. 

“Which makes me wonder why I’m talking to you,” Tarn said thoughtfully. “I really didn’t sign up for a course on what it feels like to be on the receiving end of someone else’s torment. Especially on my night off.” 

Deathsaurus propped his jaw up in his hands and rested his weight on his elbows. His wing feathers rose and fell in a rhythmic motion as he stretched and relaxed his wings. “Tell me why you’re spending your night off looking at personnel files.” 

_That was a very good question_ , Tarn thought, until he glanced at the screen and remembered why he’d suddenly developed a particular interest in Deathsaurus. 

_Though you could have looked him up during your workday_ . Tarn had kept the DJD busy with regular work hours, trying to keep their schedules as ordinary as possible. Some of that time was devoted to researching and curating the List. Tarn could have looked at Deathsaurus’s files then. 

He just hadn’t wanted any of his team to know how interested he was in a name so near the bottom of the List. Or _why_. 

“Relentlessness is supposed to be a virtue,” Tarn said stiffly. 

“Well, I don’t like spending the end of the week working. You should put the files away. Let’s find something more…entertaining to do. Any ideas?” 

“You want me to choose an entertainment.” 

Deathsaurus shrugged. “It should be something we both enjoy, but…I’m a monster with appalling tastes.” He said it without an ounce of shame. 

Tarn chuckled. “At least you admit it.” 

But was that really such a ludicrous idea? Tarn’s gaze fell on his collection of music, vids, literature… 

Deathsaurus continued. “I’d be good for a holodrama, or maybe an audiobook? I’ve got Starflix—do you?” 

Tarn did not subscribe to popular streaming services. They were filled with degenerate alien art, lowbrow trash and pro-Autobot narratives. He preferred to curate a more exclusive entertainment selection. 

But his first editions were of no use to Deathsaurus, out on the Galactic Rim. 

Of course, his first editions were of no use to him, right now, either, because they were on the _Peaceful Tyranny_ and he was stuck here in the Polyhex Grand Chateau. 

A strange notion occurred to him. He picked up the datapad that Sunstorm had given him and scrolled through it. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. The Polyhex Grand Chateau offered complimentary Starflix streaming to all rooms. 

Surely among all the garbage there had to be something worth watching. Though it might take Tarn quite some time to find it. 

“You sound unsure,” Deathsaurus said. The expression in his optics was unreadable, but it had definitely changed. His gaze was flat, not sparkling like it usually was. 

“I’m just not familiar with the choices on this service,” Tarn admitted, and immediately regretted it. He was going to be stuck watching whatever junk Deathsaurus liked. 

A small voice in his head wondered if that would really be so bad. Did it matter if the entertainment was puerile, if there was company? 

Then Tarn heard a tinny sound, like a faraway alarm. 

“Oop.” Deathsaurus’s expression changed. 

_He must not have expected me to call his bluff._

Tarn didn’t quite know how to untangle his feelings. He should feel smug that he’d caught Deathsaurus off guard. He did, a little. 

But mostly, he felt disappointed. 

Hard on the heels of the disappointment was outrage…at himself. 

He _wanted_ to watch a show with Deathsaurus?! What was wrong with him? 

“Frag, I’m sorry,” Deathsaurus said. “I promised the crew we’d watch GWL in the main hangar tonight.” 

“GWL?” 

“Galactic Wrestling League.” 

Tarn had never seen it. Never desired to see it. Didn’t understand why anyone else would want to see it. Wasn’t it all staged? 

“I can’t let my people down,” Deathsaurus said, wringing his hands. “You understand.” His wings flared behind him. He looked genuinely apologetic and agitated. 

“Next week, then,” Tarn said. “That will give me time to pick something appropriate.” 

Deathsaurus brightened. “Deal!” 

“Good night,” Tarn said, and cut the connection. 

For a time after that he sat alone in his dim room, looking at an inactive holoproj and feeling a maelstorm of unidenified sensations in his spark. At long last he roused himself from his trance and left his quarters. 

Video games might be puerile entertainment, but did that matter if there was company? 

He didn’t play, of course. He spent the evening on a sofa talking quietly with Kaon while the other four competed at some noisy, flashing game. It made Tarn feel good and yet unsatisfied, as though something was still missing. 

It wasn’t until he was tucked into his berth that Tarn realized he had made a commitment to talk to Deathsaurus again. 


	4. Day 22

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 22_

Tarn ran a polishing cloth over his armour. Foolish, really. He’d spent most of the afternoon applying a new coat of wax and shining his frame until he gleamed. It wasn’t as though he needed any more shining. 

What better time than quarantine to take a day for pampering? A long, hot soak in the hotel’s oil bath. Stripping off all his old layers of wax. Replacing them with fresh wax. Deep cleaning his tank tracks. A little highlight on the edges of his armour… 

Who was he kidding? He’d gone above and beyond even his usual immaculate presentation. All for the sake of someone whose idea of entertainment was the Galactic Wrestling League. 

The lockdown was messing with his mind. 

If he knew what was good for him he’d get up out of this chair and go…go… 

_Go to his office and review the List._

_Go to the foyer and try to call Megatron._

_Go to the medbay and tell Nickel he was ready for the checkup he’d been putting off because he knew damned well he’d cracked his T-cog again and she was going to chew him out for wasting limited resources._

_Anything_ but sit here waiting to talk to the likes of Deathsaurus. 

Yet when the comm chimed, Tarn practically pounced on his holoprojector. 

Deathsaurus’s image flickered to life in three-dimensional miniature. He greeted Tarn with a tilted head and a smile. Tarn couldn’t see the rest of him other than the tops of his wings. Deathsaurus was holding a tray piled so high with boxes, bags and cans that his entire chest was obscured. 

Now Tarn wished he’d used the flat screen. With a screen he’d have some idea of Deathsaurus’s surroundings. Maybe he’d have some context for that armload of junk. 

Tarn had told himself he didn’t want to look at Deathsaurus’s surroundings. Last time, the mech had been sitting in front of a wall covered in faded, peeling paint. Tarn’s choice to use the holoproj was absolutely because Deathsaurus had so little respect that he couldn’t be bothered to make his calls from a professionally appropriate setting, and nothing at all to do with the fact that a three-dimensional hologram felt more real than a two-dimensional flat-screen image, as though Deathsaurus was actually here visiting him and not calling from lightyears away. 

“Good evening,” Tarn said, deciding not to comment on Deathsaurus’s collection of clutter. “Are you ready for an evening of culture?” 

“Oh, I’m ready,” Deathsaurus grinned. He tilted the tray so Tarn could see. “Look. I’ve got crunchies!” 

_Crunchies._

Tarn had a glass of pre-war vintage Tetrahex triple distilled to sip over the course of the evening, and Deathsaurus had _crunchies?_

Tarn looked again and realized that he recognized some of the colourful packages on Deathsaurus’s tray. Tesarus was a big fan of Data Chipz, Nickel had a bowl of Gummi Leeches in the medbay (she said they were originally a Prion recipe that spread from her colony to the galaxy at large) and… 

Tarn felt his spark contract. 

_Magnet Dip_ . 

He remembered Magnet Dip from another lifetime. Windcharger rolling into the dorm at the Academy after lights out and distributing the contraband snacks he’d stashed in his trunk. Glitch, Skids, Windcharger and Trailbreaker, sitting around in the dark, dipping the magnetic sticks into the little tinfoil packages and licking off the shavings that came up stuck to the sticks. 

“What’s that?” Deathsaurus asked, his optics on Tarn’s glass. “Where’s your snacks?” 

“Ah…room service is late,” Tarn lied, “excuse me. I’ll be right back.” 

Tarn grabbed the hotel’s datapad off his end table and strode to the door. He opened up the datapad as soon as he was safely out in the hallway, out of the range of his commlink’s camera. Out of Deathsaurus’s sight. 

He opened the menu up to room service options, and scrolled past the energon and fine beverages until he reached… 

_Casual Fare_

Or, what Deathsaurus would call _crunchies._

They had Data Chipz. And Gummi Leeches. They had Circuit Sizzlers, Silicon Doodles and Aluminum Pie. They had Dodecahedron Crunch, Polymer Whips and Super Sour Bullets. 

And they had Magnet Dip. 

Tarn opened the link and quickly filled out the order form. After only a moment of hesitation, he ordered a few of everything. 

Not all of it would fit through the small gap in his mask. He couldn’t imagine what it would take to squeeze an Aluminium Pie in there, for example. But it wasn’t all for him. He’d take most of this haul to his squad and give them a nice surprise. It had been a long time since he’d done anything to show his appreciation for his hard working team. 

Deathsaurus wasn’t the only one who could do right by his crew. 

Order sent, Tarn returned to his room, and to Deathsaurus. The Warworld Commander had set down his tray. He was opening the lid on a can of Energon Lager with a greasy multi-tool. Tarn was glad his mask hid his grimace. 

“Found yourself a beverage, I see,” Tarn said. 

Deathsaurus looked up. “No food _still_? Someone at that hotel is going on the List.” 

“Just as well I’m in a good mood.” Tarn settled down into his chair. “It’ll be here shortly, but until it arrives, I wanted to ask if you’ve ever seen any Goldensword.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. Tarn could practically see the term entered into a search engine, the “please wait” icon in Deathsaurus’s inner viewscreen, and the final results reading _ITEM NOT FOUND_. “What’s that?” Deathsaurus asked. 

Tarn despaired. The most popular of all Cybertronian operaettas, and Deathsaurus hadn’t heard of it. 

“It’s a series of operettas,” Tarn said carefully, “about a dashing hero who uses his wits and his sword to outsmart his opponents. And it’s on Starflix.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head the other way. “I don’t know a lot about that fancy theatre stuff.” 

“You see, that’s why I chose it,” Tarn said. 

“To make me feel dumb?” Deathsaurus raised his optic ridges. 

“Because a mech doesn’t have to know anything about theatre to appreciate sword fighting, spike jokes and stage magic.” 

“Oh,” Deathsaurus said, looking a bit more interested, as though those things had appeal. “Okay.” 

“Besides, Goldensword spends most of his time sassing his enemies, which is probably why I thought of you.” 

Deathsaurus’s lips parted in a fanged but not unhandsome smile. “I suppose if I don’t understand something, I have a theatre expert here to assist me?” 

“That’s right. Just let me know so I can press pause and give your question my _full_ attention.” Tarn realized a moment too late that he’d put a bit of a purr into his voice. 

Fortunately, Deathsaurus didn’t appear to notice. “Sure,” he said as he picked up a remote control, its edges secured by a liberal application of all-purpose tape. “What’s the name of it again?” 

Tarn heard a chime at the front door of his suite. “Excuse me. That would be my food. I won’t be long.” 

“I’ll be waiting,” Deathsaurus replied. Now Tarn wondered if _he_ had heard a purr in the rogue warlord’s voice. 

No. Surely not. 

A short time later, Tarn returned to his suite with an armload of _crunchies_ : a bag of Data Chipz, a pack of Silicon Whips and, yes, every different flavour of Magnet Dip. He’d set his selections down on the table and taken the rest of the treats to the lounge: a present for his team. 

They’d all looked so surprised. 

“Of course you deserve it,” Tarn had said. “I know this lockdown has been stressful for you.” 

Tarn was _not_ going to be outdone by someone who watched Galactic Wrestling Federation with _his_ people. 

They’d invited him to join them, but he’d told them he was busy tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps. They’d smiled and thanked him. Told him they’d look forward to tomorrow. 

“My apologies for the wait,” Tarn said as he settled back down in his chair. “I had to deliver my squad’s portion.” 

“No problem,” Deathsaurus said through a mouthful of Silicon Doodles. 

Tarn wondered why he hadn’t stayed with the rest of the DJD. Maybe video games would have been a better alternative. He absolutely should be more engaged with his team. 

Deathsaurus lifted his remote. “Goldensword? There’s like twenty of these.” 

“Yes, it’s an entire series. I think we’ll start with the seventh. _Goldensword: Forged in Fire_.” 

“Not the first?” 

“The first really isn’t that good. In truth, Goldensword is only a secondary character in it. The playwright, Quire, noticed that during performances, the audience responded to Goldensword more than the lead character. So Quire wrote another play with Goldensword as the lead, and when it was a hit, he started writing more. It still took him a while to really get a grasp on the character. If you start at the beginning you’ll notice that the lore changes, and that can be confusing. _Forged in Fire_ was designed as an origin story for the character, so it makes sense to watch that one first.” 

Tarn realized that he was lecturing. At this point, Tesarus would be doing that thing where he turned up the lights on his visor to look alert while actually dozing off. Kaon would be poking Helex to help him stay focused. Vos would be tinkering with his faceplate. And Nickel would be rolling her optics. 

But Deathsaurus looked as though he was hanging on Tarn’s every word. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He lifted the remote. “Let’s do this.” 

Together, they started the show on their respective screens. 

Tarn chewed thoughtfully on a Silicon Whip. He had forgotten just how much he liked Goldensword. He’d watched them obsessively in his youth. He’d had…did he still have his copy of all the scripts? He remembered practicing them until he knew the lead character’s lines by heart. 

He _still_ knew the lines by heart, he realized as the show played on. 

But he’d stopped watching them when he realized the art scene in Vos looked down on Goldensword as lowbrow popular entertainment, even though it had already gone out of fashion in places like Kaon and Tarn. He’d started cultivating the kind of taste that the directors and patrons in Vos approved of. Goldensword was beneath him. Trash, really. 

But he loved it anyway. 

And so, apparently, did Deathsaurus. Tarn found himself watching Deathsaurus’s reactions more than the actual show. Five minutes in, Deathsaurus had looked so surprised the instant before he burst out laughing. Ten minutes in, Deathsaurus had forgotten about his crunchies, preferring to give his full attention to the show. Fifteen minutes in, Deathsaurus was laughing along with obvious delight. 

Twenty minutes in, Deathsaurus looked away from his screen long enough to sneak a glance at Tarn. 

Tarn quickly looked back at the screen and hoped his mask had concealed the truth of what he was really looking at. 


	5. Day 28, 29, 30, 37

Chapter Five 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 28_

Tarn was hard at work— _real_ work, absolutely _not_ reminiscing about how Deathsaurus looked when he was laughing at a joke in Goldensword, all four optics sparkling like that and his mouth curved in an open smile, not caring the slightest about whether or not anyone saw his double fangs—when he heard a chime from the front door of his suite. 

His team had all been assigned tasks for today. They shouldn’t be here ringing his doorbell. They would have sent him a comm if they’d needed anything. 

Equal parts irritated and curious, Tarn opened the door to see Sunstorm standing there with a small, flat item in his hands, looking a little anxious. 

“Good afternoon, sir. You have mail.” 

“Mail,” Tarn repeated. 

What? He hadn’t ordered anything. 

The item that he accepted from Sunstorm was not a parcel. It was a simple reinforced envelope. 

Tarn took it in bewilderment, turning it over in his hands. Almost nobody used this archaic form of communication. It was considered far less secure than digital mail. It could be lost, or destroyed, or easily read by the wrong eyes. It was the sort of thing typically reserved for situations where mechs were afraid of their own facton’s cyber-security reading their communications. 

That meant there were two types of people who favoured it. 

Spies. 

And lovers. 

Oh, it was a plot device in so many of the old Vosian plays. Letters delivered to the wrong recipient, or read by jealous conjunxes. Comedies—and tragedies—of errors. 

Tarn had never thought to get one himself. 

Could Megatron…? 

Tarn almost hesitated to break the seal on the envelope. He wanted to savour the anticipation of this moment. 

But he cautioned himself not to get his hopes up. The envelope was marked with a date approximately one month earlier, right after the lockdown had begun. Cybertron’s mail had been delayed, but surely not that long. The postmark was smeared but it didn’t look familiar. Offworld origins? 

Belatedly, Tarn realized that Sunstorm was still standing there, fidgeting. “Dismissed,” Tarn said. 

As Sunstorm fled in relief, Tarn closed and locked his door and turned his full attention to the mysterious envelope. He slid his talon under the flap and lifted—carefully, so as not to tear it. It opened reluctantly, a slow surrender. A glossy paper gleamed within. Tarn took hold, pulled it out. 

The left side of the paper said LORD GYCONI’S PIT OF DESTRUCTION! in a loud, garish font. Underneath was an image of two alien beasts grappling in some form of gladatorial combat in the background. 

Tarn had heard of this venue. It was a very popular tourist attraction for those Decepticons who took shore leave on Monacus. Tarn had been there himself—in the box seats, of course, fantasizing about the days when Megatron had been in the arena. He thought he might remember the line-ups at the photo booth, or perhaps he simply remembered the announcer exhorting the crowd to get their souvenirs. One could have one’s picture taken with the night’s action. 

In front of the gladiators was the person who’d purchased this souvenir. Deathsaurus, his hand raised in a V-for-victory pose, a big slag-sucking grin on his face. 

Tarn turned it over. On the reverse side of the paper, there were two sentances written in blocky, not particularly aesthetically pleasing, but clearly legible handwriting: 

_Having a great time!_

_Glad you’re not here!_

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 29_

“What in the Pit is wrong with you?” Tarn spluttered. 

Deathsaurus blinked. “That’s not a very nice way to say hello.” 

“Who in Megatron’s exalted name buys a souvenir card to send to his _mortal enemy_?” 

Deathsaurus’s whole expression perked up as his mouth curved into a smile. “You got my card!” 

“You have _serious_ mental defects.” 

Deathsaurus laughed. “Can I get off the List for reasons of insanity?” 

“What? No!” 

Deathsaurus winked—both optics on the left side. “Worth a try.” 

Tarn folded his arms in a mock huff. “I’m not certain I want to spend my evening watching plays with the likes of you.” He hoped Deathsaurus could tell that he was teasing. 

“But I so desperately need some culture.” Deathsaurus fluttered his wings and arranged his optic ridges in an expression so pleading that it looked like stage acting. 

“I’m not entirely certain that _Goldensword and Silverspear_ is sufficiently cultured to save you.” 

“But you’ve got to start with something simple, right?” 

Tarn made a theatrical sigh, hand to his chest. “I _suppose_.” 

Before long, Deathsaurus was absolutely engrossed in the show. Tarn had mixed feelings about _Goldensword and Silverspear_. It was his absolute favourite, but he’d watched it so many times that he’d memorized every word, every gesture, and every detail of the set. He really did need to find a recording of a different performance, if only to shake the excessive familiarity. He was looking forward to talking to Deathsaurus about the story after it was over, but he had difficulty concentrating on something he’d watched so often. 

His mind wandered. 

It threatened to veer into an old fantasy—the one where Tarn played Silverspear to Megatron’s Goldensword—but Tarn didn’t want to think about Megatron tonight. 

His thoughts offered up Deathsaurus in the Goldensword role instead. 

_That_ was something he was _absolutely_ not going to consider thinking about. Perhaps tonight in his berth with the lights off, but _definitely_ not now when Deathsaurus could glance at him at any second. 

No, right now he was going to think about what he should do with regards to Deathsaurus’s postcard. 

One couldn’t let a challenge like that slide. 

Honestly. What would Silverspear do? 

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 30_

Tarn woke up the next morning with his mind made up. 

_Two_ could play this game. 

The selection at the hotel was limited by Tarn’s usual standards, but overall it wasn’t too bad. Besides, the _point_ was that the Cerulean Towers was a far better-stocked establishment than a Warworld on the Galactic Rim. 

Tarn chose four brands of fine engex, along with a variety of _crunchies_. The Outer Rim didn’t get the limited edition flavours of Magnet Dip, after all. 

Tarn took his time composing the note. He wanted to hit just the right balance of elegance and sarcasm. 

__

_With hopes that you enjoy the gift._

_If you’d like more, you can always return to Cybertron…?_

Tarn doubted that Deathsaurus would be fool enough to stick his head in the DJD’s noose for the sake of some classy engex and some snacks, but it was the thought that counted. 

Now, where to send them? The Warworld had several drop points that they visited regularly to pick up supplies. Tarn had Kaon trace the Warworld’s movements until he knew which drop point the Warworld was likely to visit next. He would ship the gift there. 

He had a little spring in his step as he took the parcel to Sunstorm to be mailed. 

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 37_

“So when are you going to tell the rest of us about your boyfriend?” Nickel asked, point-blank. 

Tarn choked and spit out his drink. Droplets splattered his glass and the inside of his mask. “I…I don’t have a boyfriend!” 

“Girlfriend, then.” 

“I don’t have one of those either!” 

Nickel put her hands on her hips and gave Tarn a stern glare that said _really?_ more eloquently than any words. 

What had Kaon told her? Had that parcel given Kaon the wrong idea? 

Tarn wanted to tell her that he _couldn’t_ be courting anyone else since he was Megatron’s betrothed, but the explanation died on his lips and a terrible feeling began churning in his fuel tank. He wanted to believe that he’d do the conjunx ritus with Megatron when the war was won, but as Deathsaurus had said while discussing Goldensword last night, things didn’t magically become real just because you wanted them to be true. Tarn had been struggling valiantly to ignore the creeping dread that his grand romance with Megatron existed only in his own head. That was getting harder and harder to do, particularly considering he was on the comm with Deathsaurus every week for hours and Megatron hadn’t even sent him a text since the lockdown had begun. 

Dumbstruck, Tarn said nothing. 

Nickel raised an optic ridge. “You want to explain who you have those long chats with every week? Why we’re all locked out of your suite for the entire night? Why you turn off all your comms while you’re in there?” 

Tarn just couldn’t admit that Deathsaurus was his _boyfriend_. What would the DJD think of him courting someone on the List? 

What if Megatron found out? 

_Remember that Deathsaurus hasn’t asked you out any more than Megatron has. Neither of them has said a thing, so you mustn’t be a fool and presume._

_So what do I tell Nickel?_

Tarn drew a deep breath. “I’m pursuing an unorthodox HTK method with an extremely dangerous target.” HTK: hunt, torture, kill. “He’s a renegade warlord with a crew of five hundred, all loyal to the death, dug in on terraformed planets on the Outer Rim. So….” Tarn called on all his acting skills. “I’ve fooled him into believing he’s been pardoned for his crimes and welcomed back into the Decepticon fold. We’ll never take him in a fair fight, so I intend to charm him into putting his head into our noose.” 

Nickel nodded, but she looked a little disappointed. 

Not half as disappointed as Tarn felt. Because that was really what he ought to be doing, wasn’t it? 


	6. Day 43, 44, 51, 57

Chapter Six 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 43_

The end of the week again. Tarn realized he’d quite come to look forward to his little routine. He spent the week in the company of his crew, but this one night, he retreated to his private hab, where he poured himself a drink and waited for Deathsaurus to call. 

Tonight, though, his glass slowly emptied, and his comm link remained silent. Deathsaurus was late. 

Tarn put on some music and mixed himself another. Maybe he could distract himself with a book. 

Third glass. Even _Towards Peace_ couldn’t hold his attention. 

Where in the Pit was Deathsaurus? 

Tarn looked at the silent comm link and glowered. This had to be the next step in the game. Just when Tarn had been accustomed to his weekend jousting matches with Deathsaurus, Deathsaurus decided to mess with him by not showing up. 

Well. Tarn wasn’t about to lower himself to calling Deathsaurus. It wasn’t as though he needed the outlaw’s attention. 

Hours later, Tarn had finished the entire bottle, started a second, and finished that one too. He lay on his back on his berth, feeling the room spinning around him, waiting for a chime on his comm link, a chime that never came. 

#

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 44_

Tarn would not sit around his room the next day waiting for Deathsaurus’s apology. He was the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division and he had important things to do. 

Granted, he was still stuck in lockdown with his team, and that was disappointing, but all he could do was make the best of the situation. 

His team hadn’t had such thorough performance evaluations in centuries. 

They had excellent battle plans drawn up for the next ten names on the List. 

They had twenty new names added to the List. 

And Tarn had managed to spend only a few hours here and there thinking about the name currently sitting at #36 on the List. Thinking about moving him up the roster in punishment for what he’d done last night. 

Deathsaurus was _messing_ with him. _Deliberately_ interfering with his ability to think clearly and do his job. Deathsaurus _belonged_ on that List. 

It was a _psy-op_. 

What else could Tarn have expected from a thief and a coward? What else could Tarn have expected from the kind of person who called up the DJD to laugh at them? 

And yet. 

Tarn couldn’t help but wonder if something was terribly wrong. 

#

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 51 (Just After Midnight)_

Deathsaurus didn’t call the second week, either. At that point Tarn had had enough. 

He’d thought that Deathsaurus had enjoyed their little chats. Tarn was forced to admit to himself that _he_ had enjoyed the social opportunity with a fellow unit commander at the end of every week…at least when Deathsaurus wasn’t taking the piss. Or was that, too, a lie? Begrudgingly, Tarn realized that sometimes he played up his outrage in order to see where Deathsaurus might take the game next. 

_Game_ . Yes, it had felt like a game. Somewhere along the line taunting one another had become almost playful. An excuse to interact without ever having to admit they were anything other than sworn enemies. 

Only now Deathsaurus had grown bored of the game and not even bothered to say he was through. 

The thought made Tarn clench his vocal cords with rage. When he got Deathsaurus on the line he would show him that Tarn of the DJD was not someone to be ignored. Deathsaurus would suffer for his failure to show Tarn the deference he deserved. 

Unless. 

What if Deathsaurus was in trouble? 

What if he was dying of Cosmic Rust, right now? 

…What if he was already dead? 

Tarn would almost _rather_ Deathsaurus be another faithless traitor. Tarn knew how to deal with traitors. He didn’t know how to deal with the sickening feeling in his fuel tanks when he thought about something bad happening to Deathsaurus. 

_When you call him up, and interrupt him at whatever it is that he’s doing, are you going to be ready to kill him? Are you?_

_There will be no more end-of-the-week chats. Not after your_ very final _conversation._

_Do you want to give him a chance to say he’s sorry? Before you talk him to death?_

Tarn supposed he might. Regular conversations in exchange for sparing Deathsaurus’s life… 

No, that wouldn’t do at all. Their chats would not be the same if Deathsaurus was there because he’d been coerced. It would take all the fun out of it. 

There was a reason the DJD didn’t do apologies. 

Still, Tarn thought he might consider giving Deathsaurus another chance, depending on the show he gave when Tarn caught him. And if the show seemed insincere… 

…well, it probably wasn’t good for Tarn to be getting so familiar with a traitor anyway. Right? 

#

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 57_

Tarn settled himself in his room with the communications setup that Kaon had assembled for him sitting on his silver energon service cart. Kaon had asked if Tarn would like him to open the connection, but Tarn had said no. He’d always met with Deathsaurus in private. It would be awkward to have Kaon listening in. 

He’d told Kaon he’d call if he had any trouble. 

Tarn took a deep breath and hit the _transmit_ button. It made him feel strange. Anxious and jumpy. He’d never called Deathsaurus before. He’d always been cocooned here in his room, safe in his fortress of privacy when Deathsaurus messaged him. 

The voice that answered the comm wasn’t Deathsaurus’s. 

“Warworld command.” It sounded female. 

Tarn froze. 

The viewscreen on the other end must not be working. Tarn couldn’t see who he was talking to. That mechanism apparently couldn’t see him, either. 

“Who’s calling?” she asked. 

Tarn bit his lip under his mask. He couldn’t tell the truth. He’d send this mechanism into a panic. 

Or she’d think he was joking and laugh at him, and he’d have to prove it, and….well. Murdering an associate would not put Deathsaurus in a friendly mood. Tarn knew full well how highly Deathsaurus valued his crew. 

_Killing Deathsaurus’s associates is going to be a problem._

He would let that be a problem for Tomorrow Tarn. He had other things on his mind right now. 

“It’s Damus,” he said slowly, unable to come up with a better alias on the spur of the moment. “Damus of Tarn. Is Deathsaurus available?” 

“Let me ask,” she replied, in a tone suggesting the answer would be no. “Going to put you on hold.” 

Before Tarn could think better of informing her that nobody put the DJD on hold, some loud, pounding, degenerate music came blasting through the comm link. 

Tarn’s mouth was dry. His hands were shaking. What was the matter with him? 

The music stopped with a click. 

“Y’ello?” said a voice. It sounded both like Deathsaurus and not. The tone was right. The pronounciation was wrong. 

Tarn’s viewscreen flickered with colour, then blurred into static. 

“Jussa sec.” 

Tarn clearly heard a slamming sound. The picture illuminated, then stabilized. 

“Who’zis?” Deathsaurus slurred. 

An icy hand clamped around Tarn’s spark. 

Deathsaurus looked like absolute hell. Not Cosmic Rust, either. The kind of hell the DJD specialized in inflicting. 

There had been some repair work done—like the silver patch welded over the gaping hole where Deathsaurus’s optic had been, and the clamped-off wires dangling from the mangled root of Deathsaurus’s wing, and a weld at the corner of Deathsaurus’s mouth that suggested his entire cheek had been ripped open at some point in the not too distant past—but it was clear to Tarn that his fear had not been unfounded. Something had indeed gone terribly wrong. 

But Deathsaurus was still alive. 

“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been lately,” Tarn said slowly. “It’s been strange for me to end my week without your customary taunting comm call.” 

“Oh.” Deathsaurus’s dazed expression sharpened. “It’s _you_.” He sounded more curious than angry. 

“I see you’ve been indisposed,” Tarn said, trying to reassure Deathsaurus that he wasn’t blaming him for not calling from what was clearly a hospital bed. 

Deathsaurus got a big dreamy smile on his face. “You don’t sound like I thought you would,” he said. 

Tarn frowned under his mask, guessing at a reason for Deathsaurus’s slurred speech and disorientation. “You’re on some strong pain medication, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah. Doc says I hafta.” Deathsaurus looked, and sounded, unimpressed. “I _hate_ it. Hey, I know full well I trained my crew right. I know they’ll take care of me until I’m better. But it doesn’t feel right. Not being fighting fit to protect them.” He glowered. “Don’t you get any ideas. My crew are on high alert right now.” 

“Don’t worry,” Tarn said smoothly. “Polyhex is still on full lockdown. My death squad and I aren’t going anywhere.” 

Deathsaurus sagged back into his pillows. “So, yeah, sorry I’m kind of out of it.” 

“If it helps, I don’t think you’d be fighting fit sober right now. The pain would probably be more incapacitating than whatever medication you’re on. You can take that from someone who knows quite a bit about pain.” 

“Yeah, I suppose.” Deathsaurus smiled and changed the subject. “Y’know, I really thought your voice would be deeper.” 

Tarn reconsidered. Deathsaurus definitely seemed confused. “You’ve been listening to me for how many weeks now?” 

“Oh, I haven’t been listening to you until today.” Deathsaurus sounded quite pleased with himself. “I put you on mute and ran your signal through a sound-to-text conversion filter.” 

Tarn’s jaw dropped. “You _what_?” 

Deathsaurus looked back at him with a smug smile. Or, at least, the intact half of his mouth was smiling. “I heard you could kill with your voice even through a comm link. Is that true?” 

“Yes,” Tarn admitted begrudgingly. “It’s just a matter of matching my tone to the vibrational frequency of your spark.” Which was what he’d been psyching himself up to do tonight, only to discover Deathsaurus seriously injured. 

“So if I was calling you up to make fun of you, leaving myself open for that sort of retaliation wouldn’t have been smart, would it? Even if I did kind of deserve it.” 

Tarn should have been annoyed, but he was secretly amused. This kind of audacity and cunning was just so Deathsaurus. “But you don’t mind listening to me now? I could still kill you,” he teased, and hoped Deathsaurus would know he was joking. 

“Are you killing me right now and I’m just too doped up to notice it yet?” 

“What? No!” 

Deathsaurus beamed. “Then no, I’m not worried. After all, if you’d honestly tried to kill me over the comm, you’d have noticed long ago that it wasn’t working.” 

“What I notice now is that something else almost beat me to it.” Tarn tried not to stare at Deathsaurus’s ruined optic. “What happened to you?” 

“Maulers.” Deathsaurus shrugged. “No fatalities…yet.” 

“Yet.” Tarn didn’t feel he could express sympathy for Deathsaurus’s crew—he’d killed enough of them—but he could tell that Deathsaurus was concerned. 

“Maulers are silicon-based organisms just like we are. That means they’re also potential carriers of the Cosmic Rust virus. We’ve had twelve of my crew test positive since the attack and I have to assume that the entire Warworld has been exposed, so…” 

“Two weeks of quarantine for all of you.” 

“At least,” Deathsaurus agreed. “Not that I’m in any shape to be going too far at the present.” 

“Don’t push yourself,” Tarn said sternly. “You said it yourself. You need to trust your crew to do their jobs and focus on your recovery.” 

“Yes, sir,” Deathsaurus replied teasingly. “I bet you sure would hate it if something else killed me before you got your chance.” 


	7. Day 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 63, 64

Chapter Seven 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 57_

“Your voice is really lyrical,” Deathsaurus continued with a beatific smile. “It’s so nice just to listen to you.” 

Tarn wondered if this was the painkillers talking, or if the drugs just gave Deathsaurus the urge to say what he really thought. 

“What, you want me to read you some poetry or some such?” Tarn tried to sound sardonic. He didn’t dare hope that Deathsaurus might actually want such a thing. 

“You could read me pre-war requisition catalogues and I’d be happy to listen to it.” Tarn recognized that Deathsaurus was suggesting something that was not only boring, but was also completely useless from an intelligence standpoint. He wasn’t fishing for current DJD protocols and procedures, or names on the List, or the inventory aboard the _Peaceful Tyranny_. 

_He just wants to listen to me_ . It gave Tarn a strange fluttery feeling in his spark. 

“Well, you’re in luck,” Tarn said slowly. “I have a number of volumes of poetry right here.” 

“Okay.” Deathsaurus gave him a dreamy smile. 

Tarn glanced over his poetry shelf. He didn’t dare read any of Megatron’s. Not to Deathsaurus. It seemed wrong somehow, and Tarn didn’t want to think about why that was. 

Instead, he grabbed a well worn copy of something else: _Classics from the Age of Primes_. Megatron had said it was one of his favourites, and young Damus had jumped on the recommendation. 

_Megatron, again_ . 

But these weren’t Megatron’s works. They belonged to all of Cybertron. They belonged to the past. 

Tarn opened up the book to one of his favourites and started to read. “Sing the fall of a thousand ashes / and stars in the skies of night / sing the song of a dream of honour…” 

Tarn wasn’t sure if Deathsaurus would recognize that the poem followed the structure of an old-fashioned requiem, or if he’d grasp the subtler messages woven through the verses: that every victory demanded sacrifice, that sometimes that sacrifice was one’s beliefs, that honour was more an ideal than a reality. Then he was afraid that Deathsaurus _would_ understand and take offense, thinking Tarn had chosen this poem to scold him. 

But Deathsaurus did not look like a mech who was offended. He dimmed his optics and folded his arms across his chest, a soft smile on his lips. He looked strangely peaceful: very strange indeed for a Decepticon warlord. Decepticon commanders typically strove to look as fierce as possible. But Deathsaurus had always flaunted convention. 

Tarn wondered if Deathsaurus was even awake. 

When Tarn finished the poem, and silence crackled over the comm link, a red light illuminated on Deathsaurus’s helm. The beast optic overtop of Deathsaurus’s missing one. 

_That’s a real eye_ . Tarn had not considered that the beast helm’s optics might be functional. Intution told him that yes, they were. 

“Would you like to hear another?” Tarn inquired, even as his mind tried to wrap itself around the idea that Deathsaurus currently had three working eyes. What did those upper optics see when everyone assumed that Deathsaurus’s gaze was limited to what the lower optics were pointed towards? 

“Yes please,” Deathsaurus sighed. 

Tarn had always wanted an appreciative audience. This was so much better than trying to force his crew to attend _cultural enrichment seminars_. Lockdown had strained both Tesarus’s attention span and Tarn’s patience with his team’s lack of reverence for the classics. Deathsaurus could have all the weird physiology he pleased so long as he was such an attentive listener. And were double optics really worse than Tesarus’s visor array, or Kaon’s empty sockets or Vos’s removable face? 

Were they worse than an empurata victim with a hollow helm and claws for hands? 

Tarn was not sure how long he read, only that his voxcoder had begun to grow sore, and that Deathsaurus’s optics lit more slowly when each poem ended. The Warworld commander was tiring, and that should be no surprise, given his physical condition. Yet Tarn was reluctant to see this evening end. 

“I’m sorry,” Deathsaurus whispered. “I’m sure my Chief Medical Officer will be along any minute to chastize me about overexerting myself.” 

“I shouldn’t have kept you,” Tarn murmured. “You need your rest so you can recover.” 

“Yeah.” Deathsaurus smiled. “I’ll be back in fighting form before you come to kill me.” 

Back on that topic again. Tarn wished Deathsaurus wouldn’t fixate on it so much. It was hard to lose himself in a fantasy when Deathsaurus kept reminding him what their relationship truly was. What it had to be. 

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 58_

__

The next morning, Tarn woke up, anxious and agitated. The week had barely begun, and yet all he could think about was Deathsaurus in that hospital berth. 

The way Deathsaurus always went on about Tarn coming to kill him…it made sense that Deathsaurus might hide the severity of his injuries. Which were already plenty severe enough, from what Tarn had seen. 

Deathsaurus wouldn’t call him for days yet. Tarn felt it was inappropriate for him to call Deathsaurus out of the blue. 

But surely a brief text message wouldn’t be so bad. 

Tarn kept it short. Keeping it casual was harder. In the end he had to pretend that he was playing Deathsaurus on stage. What would Deathsaurus do? 

_Are you dead yet? --T_

An hour later, a quick reply. 

_Won’t die for anyone but you, babe. –D_

__

Tarn should be outraged at being called _babe_. 

It made his spark feel warm instead. 

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 59_

__

_Still not dead, in case you were wondering. –D_

# 

__

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 60_

__

_If those medics aren’t treating you right, let me know. I could make room on a certain List. –T_

__

_Do you do Maulers? --D_

__

_My apologies, Cybertronians only. –T_

# 

_  
Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 61 _

__

_Hello Damus. Can I call you Damus? --D_

__

_We can’t both sign off with the same initial. –D of T_

__

_I suppose this works? --D-336_

__

_Numbers? --D of T_

__

_My real name. –D-336_

# 

__

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 63_

__

_Calling you from the medbay is going to be awkward. –D-336_

__

_Should I call you, again, then? --D of T_

__

_I was too stoned to notice but we were lucky last time. If any of my crew had seen your face—such as it is—on the comm room monitor, things would have gotten complicated. –D-336_

__

_Yes, I suppose they would have. –D of T_

__

_I have no business keeping secrets from my crew anyway. –D-336_

__

There was a long pause, during which time Tarn realized he was growing anxious. Then his comm buzzed again. 

_We need to talk about this. With the viewscreens off. –D-336_

__

What could Tarn say but 

_All right. Tomorrow, audio only. –D of T_

__

_I’m still hooked up to the medical scanners. If you try any of your vocal tricks on me, you’ll set off alarms all over this medbay. –D-336_

__

Tarn couldn’t help but feel hurt. 

_Didn’t we just agree that if I intended to kill you with my voice I would have attempted it long ago? --D of T_

__

_Just following protocol. I can’t take foolish chances. Talk to you tomorrow, usual time. –D-336_

__

Another pause. 

_Have a good night. –D-336_

__

_Yourself as well._ – _D of T_

__

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 64_

__

Tarn sat in front of his comm unit, feeling hesitant. He checked for the fourth time that the camera was off. It was. 

Deathsaurus’s suspicions hurt. He couldn’t believe that Deathsaurus had been muting him all this time and reading his words via text caption. Now he had to hide his identity from Deathsaurus’s crew. Was he really so… 

_Of course you’re really so bad—you’re the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division, you bloody idiot!_

_You’ve spent millions of years cultivating a persona of ultimate terror and inescapable judgment. You used to be proud when mechanisms dropped dead with fear at the very sight of you._

Now he was Deathsaurus’s dirty little secret. It felt awful. And of course Deathsaurus didn’t trust him. The mech wasn’t stupid. 

All that remained was for Deathsaurus to feel guilty about hiding their talks from his crew, and these end of the week chats would be over. 

Tarn would do anything to stop that from happening. 

But what could he offer? Deathsaurus didn’t seem the type to take bribes, and Tarn already knew that threats were useless when the whole appeal of these visits was that Deathsaurus _wanted_ to talk to him, that Deathsaurus sought him out… 

Tarn impulsively jabbed the “connect” button, before his thoughts could lead him down a dark spiral of depression, anxiety, and self-loathing. 

“Warworld command.” It was the same female voice. Tarn never forgot a voice. 

“Ah, hello. This is Damus, calling for Deathsaurus?” 

Her tone changed from brusque to warm. “Hello Damus. Please hold for transfer.” It had been a long time since a stranger talked to him in such a welcoming way. 

The annoying music came on, then a click, and then another strange voice. “Hey Deathsaurus, it’s your _boyfriend!_ ” 

Tarn froze. 

“Hi Damus!” said someone else who was definitely not Deathsaurus. 

“Give me that!” _That_ was Deathsaurus. 

“We want to talk to your boyfriend.” Tarn wasn’t sure if this was the first mech who’d used the B-word or yet another crew member. 

Clattering. It sounded as though someone had forcibly grabbed the comm. The mech who spoke into it wasn’t Deathsaurus. He talked with a gravelly voice and a stern tone. “Don’t keep our fearsome leader up too late tonight. He needs his rest.” 

“Yeah, don’t wear him out by…” 

“Shut up!” Deathsaurus again, and the sound of someone mumbling around a hand clapped over his mouth. Tarn couldn’t hear how he was supposed to be wearing Deathsaurus out, though he thought the mech might be insinuating something rather raunchy. He’d feel angry about this ribald comment after his faceplates cooled down. 

Tarn took off his mask to let his cheeks cool. They were on audio only, after all. Nobody could see his bare face. 

“The screen’s not working.” A female voice, different from the one who answered the comms. “We want to see him.” 

“It’s inactive.” Deathsaurus. Tarn noted that Deathsaurus did not say _broken_ or _damaged_ , just _inactive_ , which was probably not a lie. Not if Deathsaurus had deliberately turned off the video display. Tarn ought to remember that the things Deathsaurus said might be honest to a fault, but he was very good at lying by omission. 

“Do you want to borrow mine?” 

“Not for tonight, Jallguar.” 

“Awww. We want to see your boyfriend.” 

“No you don’t.” 

_Understatement of the year_ . 

“Here, Killbison, look at this.” One of the earlier voices. “This is him.” 

“He’s cute!” 

“He’s _tiny_.” 

Raucous laughter. “You’re gonna break him when you get him on his knees and…” 

“Shut _up_ , Guyhawk.” 

More mumbling. 

“Come on.” It was the gravelly-voiced mech. “Let’s get out of here and give our commander some privacy.” 

General moaning and groaning, of the kind Tarn often heard from his own team. Assorted good nights. A stern warning from the gravelly-voiced mech to Deathsaurus about getting enough rest and a threat to tell the CMO. Then a click, like a door closing. 

“ _Finally_ ,” Deathsaurus said. “I am _so_ sorry about all that.” 

Tarn wished he could see an embarrassed-looking Deathsaurus. The voice alone was a treat. Enough to make up for Tarn’s own embarrassment. 

“There’s precious little privacy on this Warworld at the best of times. We all live in each other’s pockets and the quarantine lockdown has only made it worse. With so few missions in the field, they amuse themselves by getting into one another’s business.” 

“It’s fine,” Tarn assured Deathsaurus. “My own team is the same, lately.” Then his curiosity got the best of him. “What picture do they think is me?” 

Deathsaurus made a growling kind of sound that seemed to convey deep thought. “I’m alone. This feed is encrypted. We can activate visuals.” 

Tarn hurriedly put his mask back on. “Activating.” 

Deathsaurus flickered into view. To Tarn’s relief, he looked healthier, if still not fighting fit. The weld at the corner of his mouth was almost healed. His wing stub was a neat stump, no more dangling wires, but no new wing, either. He still had an eyepatch over his missing optic. Tarn wondered how severe Deathsaurus’s internal damage was. Obviously severe enough that the medics had prioritized it over trying to replace the wing and optic. Yet Deathsaurus was clearly on less pain medication than he had been a week ago. He seemed to be on the mend, embarrassment aside. The optic ridges on his helm furrowed when he was embarrassed, Tarn saw. 

Deathsaurus held a small holoimage in his hand, but Tarn could only see the reverse. 

“My apologies if I got it wrong,” Deathsaurus mused. “It’s a very old image, but it’s the only thing I could find of anyone called _Damus of Tarn_.” 


	8. Day 64

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 64_

Deathsaurus turned the holoimage around, and Tarn’s breath caught in his vents. 

The picture in Deathsaurus’s hands was one of Glitch. It must have been taken during his later days at the Outliers Academy, because his claws were gone, replaced by proper hands. But his empurata head remained, hollow and uncanny, emotionless and repulsive. 

“How in the _Pit_ did you find _that_ image?” Tarn demanded. Deathsaurus was on the _Outer Rim_ and Damus had adapted his current frame before Deathsaurus had even come _online_. Tarn had put forth _effort_ in removing his old photos from the extranet. One of the Decepticons’ best computer experts had bought himself over a century of extra life in exchange for granting Tarn’s wishes. 

“So it is you.” Deathsaurus’s smile got big and dreamy, and Tarn remembered that _fewer_ painkillers didn’t mean _none_. “I’m glad.” 

Tarn’s fuel pump skipped a beat. His head spun. “What do you mean, you’re glad?” 

“Lyzack is right.” His smile broadened. “You _are_ cute.” 

Tarn’s breath caught in his vents, but a terrible thought sparked a smouldering rage in his spark. “You’re not taunting me, are you?” 

Deathsaurus blinked. “What?” 

_He’s_ not _taunting me._

“Oh,” Tarn said softly. 

Deathsaurus’s gaze grew sharp and intense. “Did someone lie to you?” he asked, his voice soft but taut with tension. “Did someone _dare_ tell you that you were ugly?” 

“I…” Tarn didn’t know how to express the things he felt when he looked in the mirror. “Surely you know that part of the _point_ of empurata is to evoke feelings of disgust and discomfort in others.” 

“It didn’t work.” Deathsaurus’s lips curled back over his teeth, displaying his double fangs. It was a threatening gesture, yet Tarn didn’t feel that the threat was directed towards him. The rest of Deathsaurus’s expression was smug. “I’d like to tell whoever was responsible that they failed, abysmally. You were still very, very cute.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Tarn said dryly. “I executed them all long ago.” 

“Ah. Good.” 

“Why, would you have fought them for me? My noble defender?” Tarn couldn’t quite keep the bitterness from his voice. He’d once been pleased that Megatron had given him the tools to take his own vengeance. But he’d secretly wished that Megatron would have cared enough to take that vengeance on his behalf. 

Tarn was intending to tease. So why did he feel such a tingle up his spinal strut? 

“I’d have fought them _with_ you.” 

It was Tarn’s turn to blink. 

Deathsaurus’s helm ridges furrowed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m told I’m _overbearing_. That most mechs don’t want a black knight imposing his solutions on their problems unbidden.” 

“A black knight. I thought the term was _white knight_.” 

“Well, the heroic rescue comes with socially unacceptable degrees of carnage.” 

Tarn couldn’t help laughing. 

“But maybe you’re into that kind of thing?” Deathsaurus’s wing roots moved. One wing flared. The mangled wing just twitched a little. Deathsaurus winced in pain, though he couldn’t resist the urge to duck his head behind the good wing for just an instant before he got control of himself and folded the good wing up again. “I can hope, I suppose.” His wing roots relaxed and the pain faded from his face, though the embarrassment remained. “I can’t help being what I am.” 

“Far be it from me to judge you for a little carnage.” 

Deathsaurus perked up and laughed. 

Tarn continued, “While I’m sorry to tell you I killed the perpetrators without you, perhaps the next time I need help massacring someone, I might ask for your assistance?” 

Deathsaurus suddenly grew very still. 

Tarn froze too, realizing what he’d just said. 

“Really?” Deathsaurus asked. 

“Er,” Tarn replied. “I...” Thinking quickly, he lifted his glass of engex. “This must be very strong, I…” 

It wasn’t very strong. It wasn’t strong at all. But there was no way he could actually expect the DJD to team up with Deathsaurus. The easiest way out of this mistake was to blame the engex. 

“I don’t know how we would work that,” Tarn finished lamely. 

“Probably unfeasable,” Deathsaurus agreed. Then he leaned forward and added, “but it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?” 

Tarn felt his faceplates heating under his mask. “You’re under the influence too,” he whispered. 

Surely Deathsaurus wouldn’t say such things sober. 

Deathsaurus’s face fell. “It’s that obvious?” 

“Given your condition, I would _hope_ you’re following your CMO’s advice.” 

Who was the Warworld’s CMO? Tarn only had one medic on the List: Glit. Was that where Glit had ended up? Tarn wasn’t sure. Glit was quite a ways down the List, purely for practical reasons: once the DJD executed Glit, there were going to be a significant number of mechanisms turning traitor in protest. Sometimes it seemed as though half the Decepticon Army owed their lives to Glit. The Decepticons couldn’t afford a mutiny of that size right now. They were shorthanded as it was. Tarn couldn’t wait to wring the neck of that miserable traitor who thought he had the right to heal _anybody_ instead of prioritizing his own kind. But other than being a traitor and a pacifist, Tarn knew nothing at all about who Glit was or why he held such extreme beliefs. 

Tarn realized he didn’t know all that much about Deathsaurus and his crew beyond a list of names. 

But Deathsaurus knew a lot about _him_. 

Tarn wasn’t sure whether he should be angry at Deathsaurus for cyber-stalking him or flattered that Deathsaurus had taken such interest in him. It wasn’t as though his previous identity as Damus, or Glitch, was any kind of secret. Skids knew it. Prowl knew it. Undoubtedly anyone in Autobot High Command who needed to know it knew it. 

Yet he was anxious to have Deathsaurus linking the fearsome commander of the DJD with the little empurata victim with the repulsive and out of control talent. 

_But he said I was cute._

Maybe Deathsaurus had a liking for minibots. 

Which meant that Tarn’s current frame would no longer be to the warlord’s taste. 

“I don’t like it,” Deathsaurus said with a scowl. For a moment Tarn was terrified that Deathsaurus was talking about his present frame. Then Deathsaurus added, “But yes. I’m taking every medication that Glit and Requiem ask me to.” 

“Good,” Tarn said. “I promise not to take any kind of advantage of your current state.” 

“Oh, _I’m_ going to take advantage of my current state.” Deathsaurus’s sly smile was back, along with the gleam in his three remaining optics. He leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands. “For example, given that I’m obviously fendered out of my mind, I’ll certainly be forgiven for asking if you’re still cute under the mask.” 

Tarn felt defensive and flattered in equal measure. What was under the mask was classified; something only his own team got to see. Everyone else got massacred horribly for even asking. Everyone else got denied the small mercy of having their spark snuffed by Tarn’s Voice. Instead, they were thrown to the rest of the DJD for the team’s amusement, prolonging their torment by hours, sometimes days. Tarn should be enraged. 

But Deathsaurus wanted to see. 

_He’d be let down by the truth. You’re hideous. What with that scar and the rust and all._

Would a mech who thought empurata could be cute really be put off by that scar? 

Tarn cleared his throat and his mind. “You can’t use intoxication as a defense, Deathsaurus. Mechs who come to me are beyond the exonoration of judge or jury.” 

“So what kind of last wish do I get from my executioner?” Deathsaurus gave Tarn a double wink and a winning smile. 

Tarn sighed. “You’d be disappointed,” he said quietly. “I’m somewhat ugly.” 

“You want to see something ugly?” Deathsaurus curled his lip in that fang-flashing smile that conveyed aggression mixed with and dark humour. 

Deathsaurus’s frame twitched. 

His neck and torso shifted. Paused. Shifted back. 

His optics flickered. His smile faded. 

His frame initiated transformation again and this time got a little bit farther before the sequence halted and returned to its original state. 

Deathsaurus gritted his teeth and… 

“Stop,” Tarn said. 

Deathsaurus shot him a glare. 

“You’ve obviously got a cracked T-cog. If you try to force the transformation it’ll shatter in your chest.” 

“It should be healed by now.” Deathsaurus’s voice was a low snarl. 

“It’s _not_.” Tarn stopped himself, then chose to risk it. “I would know.” 

“Oh?” Deathsaurus’s features relaxed as he sagged back into his hospital berth. “Oh, right, the transformation addiction.” 

“I can stop _whenever I want to_.” 

“Sure you can.” Deathsaurus’s voice lost its sarcastic lilt. “Don’t lie to me.” 

“It’s not an addiction, it’s a _bad habit_ , and do you have any idea how much stress this job involves? I’m not even a person, I’m a _role model_ for the entire Decepticon army. Do you think I have any kind of life other than exemplifying Megatron’s will?” 

“I think you have a private life where you watch trashy operettas, drink too much fancy engex, and video call a known traitor at the end of the week.” 

“All of which you are in no position to judge.” 

“I can’t afford fancy engex.” 

Tarn couldn’t wait for Deathsaurus to get his present. “No, but you refuel on swill.” 

“Guilty.” 

“The _point_ is that I know a cracked T-cog when I see one and I also know how much pain you must be in when you attempt a conversion. It’s bad enough that it hurts you through whatever drugs you’re on and in addition to your multiplicity of other injuries.” 

“Thought you’d get off on seeing me in pain.” 

Tarn recoiled. He couldn’t help himself. 

Deathsaurus _noticed_. Didn’t even bother to try to hide his interest in observing Tarn’s body language. 

Wasn’t _that_ just lovely. Two million years building a reputation, gone in an instant because Tarn didn’t have the self-control to hide his reaction. 

“You don’t want to see that.” Deathsaurus’s voice was soft, but it wasn’t a question. 

There was one way to salvage his image. “I’m the only thing that gets to hurt you.” 

Deathsaurus blinked, then threw back his head and laughed. 

Tarn hated himself for saying it. He should have been relieved, but instead, he hated himself beyond words. 

He could think of no other way to change the subject than another thing he currently regretted. “My new face doesn’t much resemble my old one.” 

_Regret?_

Fear chilled his spark. 

Because he’d always liked the new face he’d chosen before now. The one that looked enough like Megatron to be handsome, yet different enough to not look exactly the same. He’d thought his new face was pleasing. Now it was humiliating. What if Deathsaurus saw it? He’d know in an instant who Tarn was copying. 

The fearless leader who hadn’t spoken to Tarn since the lockdown began. 

But Deathsaurus had other ideas about how Tarn’s new look was different from his old one. “Two optics, for starters.” __

“I mean pre-empurata.” Tarn narrowed his optics. “I refuse to believe you haven’t cyber-stalked me for that image.” 

“Yeah, I found it. And ease off on the _stalking_. It’s called _strategic intelligence gathering_.” 

“This relationship isn’t a…a military maneuver.” 

“This _relationship_ is predicated on your vow to murder my family. It’s my _duty_ to learn all I can about you so I’m ready when you come to massacre them.” 

Tarn felt Deathsaurus’s words like a spear through the spark. “Then why do you keep _talking_ to me. Why do you take my calls? If you hate me—and you have every right to—we’ve gone far beyond prank calls and mockery, so _why_?” 

“Because I like talking to you,” Deathsaurus said softly. “And once my crew is looked after, I do what I please.” 

“Even though I’m going to kill you.” It didn’t make sense. 

Deathsaurus shrugged, nonplussed. “Plenty of vices kill.” 

_He’s decided he likes me, even though I’m going to kill him, and he’s decided he doesn’t care._

_Or rather, he’s decided to accept the future consequences in exchange for the pleasure of the moment._

Tarn felt his T-cog twitch in his chest and realized he was in no position to judge Deathsaurus for that. 

“I’m not in the practice of granting last requests,” he said softly, “but I’ll make an exception for you.” 

“Why?” Deathsaurus was blunt and demanding. 

“Because…” Tarn bit his lip under the mask. “That nonsense with your crew when I first called. That _boyfriend_ business.” 

“Oh, that.” Deathsaurus seemed dismissive. It hurt. “They say the craziest…” 

“My crew too,” Tarn blurted. “Want to know who I’m talking to. Say I have a boyfriend.” 

Deathsaurus hesitated. “Oh?” 

Tarn summoned up all his courage. “Are we?” 


	9. Day 64, 65

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 64_

Tarn couldn’t help but wonder if his team and Deathsaurus’s crew knew something the two of them didn’t. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head curiously. “What, like you mean _are we courting_?” 

Tarn nodded dumbly, wondering if this ridiculous nonsense was the way he ended up getting asked out by Deathsaurus. It would serve him right. That was exactly how Deathsaurus operated. 

Tarn wondered if he would say yes to Deathsaurus’s request anyway. 

He rather suspected he might. 

Deathsaurus laughed. “Well, everyone says so. Must be true!” 

“Deathsaurus, be serious.” 

Deathsaurus abruptly sobered up and regarded Tarn with a steady stare. “Are you honestly asking me out? No joke?” 

Tarn felt a pang in his spark. It shouldn’t do, for the commander of the Decepticon Justice Division to show vulnerability. Yet how could he expect Deathsaurus to be forthcoming if he wouldn’t extend the same courtesy? 

“I was actually hoping _you_ might do the asking.” 

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Tarn cringed. It was utterly inappropriate for someone like him to _dare_ make such a demand of his… 

_Deathsaurus is_ not _my Lord. Megatron is my Lord._

_Deathsaurus is my subordinate. Or_ was _. Before he went rogue. Before he became an_ unperson. 

_Really, I could do anything I want to him. Nobody in High Command even recognizes him as a Decepticon any more, badge or no. I could just go_ get _Deathsaurus. Make him mine. Megatron doesn’t care how I choose to…_

Suddenly Tarn remembered just exactly what he was supposed to do to Deathsaurus when the DJD caught him. 

Tarn felt sick. 

He didn’t know why. 

Because he was betraying Megatron? 

Because he was duty-bound to kill Deathsaurus? 

On the screen, Deathsaurus’s optics were wide with shock. Tarn had the terrible feeling that the rogue warlord was about to bust out laughing at him. 

Instead, Deathsaurus leaned closer, narrowing both sets of optics. Tarn could feel Deathsaurus examining him even through their screens. “Do you think that would work?” he asked. “Don’t you think it’s a little too soon?” 

Tarn blinked. “I…I, ah, don’t know what you mean by…” 

“For starters, we haven’t even been in the same room together in over two million years.” 

Tarn tried to remember the last time he and Deathsaurus were in the same room. Probably the Enclave—the Bad Guy’s Ball, as the Autobots called it. Tarn had vague memories of that. 

“The Enclave in Helex,” Tarn guessed, hoping he was right. 

By the Cause, he could barely remember Deathsaurus being there. His memory offered up an image of Deathsaurus sitting at the far end of the Council table with the more junior officers. Yes, Tarn recalled that he’d been keeping a careful optic on Deathsaurus because he’d recently been passed over for promotion. The rest of Decepticon High Command had expected him to make a scene. 

Why? 

_Mercurial personality._

_Speaks his mind._

Yet Tarn had no recollection of actually saying, or doing, anything to Deathsaurus in the way of scoldings or punishments. Nor did he remember Deathsaurus behaving in any unusual way. His memory banks offered up an idle thought he’d had at the time: _well, they say he’s unpredictable—perhaps this time the surprise is unexpected good behaviour._

Tarn pressed his lips together. Minding his manners solely to mess with people—that did seem like the sort of thing Deathsaurus might do. Yet it was equally likely that Deathsaurus hadn’t particuarly cared about career advancement. He wanted to be left alone to do his own thing, not brought deeper into High Command, especially not when… 

Tarn felt his spark freeze. 

_Deathsaurus must have been planning his defection._

_No, those plans would have already been in motion at this point._

_Any unusual behaviour would be blamed on the promotion debacle, and meanwhile, Deathsaurus was calmly sitting with Decepticon High Command while secretly orchestrating the largest defection in the history of the Decepticons._

_And we said he had no subtlety. No self-control._

One last memory file opened. Sitting around the Council table, Deathsaurus had noticed Tarn watching him. He’d lifted his head and locked gazes with Tarn. Someone had been talking—it sounded like Onslaught—but throughout Onslaught’s entire presentation, Tarn and Deathsaurus had stared at one another. 

Then Megatron had asked Tarn a question, and he’d looked away from Deathsaurus to answer it. 

“That’s right,” said the present-day Deathsaurus. “I thought you were onto me. The desertion and all. You kept staring at me through the entire Enclave. I expected you to make your move right as the Bad Guys’ Ball ended.” 

Tarn sighed. “I hate to feed your monstrous ego.” 

Deathsaurus barked laughter. “Oh, _please do_ tell.” 

“Hush, you did it on purpose. We all expected you to cause trouble out of bitterness for losing that promotion.” 

“Promo…” Deathsaurus tilted his head. Blinked. Then broke out laughing again. “Primus, I’d almost forgotten that.” 

“Perhaps I can take credit for not believing that your quiet behaviour at the Enclave was a sign of contrition on your part, but unfortunately I can’t say that I saw the defection coming.” 

“Take credit for making me worried.” Deathsaurus grinned. 

“Is it that you feel our dynamic is too adversarial?” Tarn said, hoping to bring the topic back to courting. 

Deathsaurus’s smile fell. “It _will_ be, if we ever end up in the same room together.” 

Tarn winced. 

Deathsaurus leaned forward. “Even if Megatron hadn’t ordered you to assassinate me, we might not get along as well in person as we do over the comms. We might find out that we can’t tolerate one another on an everyday basis. Or we might find we have absolutely no chemistry in a physical sense.” 

Tarn flushed. He hadn’t really thought about that. He’d _fantasized_ about it, certainly, but fantasies took place in the ordered confines of his own mind where he was in absolute control of what happened. 

To do that with Deathsaurus in real life? Where he could make any number of mistakes? Where Deathsaurus could do all manner of unpredictable things? 

Could he _really_? 

His spark clenched. 

He _wanted_ to. 

Deathsaurus continued, “Ordinarily I’d be game to try it just to find out if it would work or not, but since Megatron has, in fact, told you to put me on your List, we’ll never have the opportunity to find out.” His voice was strangely gentle. “There’s really no future for us.” 

“Then how about right now?” Tarn didn’t bother trying to hide the anguish in his voice. “Why not while we’re locked down, me in Polyhex, you on your Warworld, for as long as neither of us have to worry about my duties and your crimes?” 

“Because this lockdown isn’t _real life_. Not really. Someday it’ll end and we’ll go back to what we used to be, and when that happens, we need to be ready. Not lost in delusions and _wishes_.” Deathsaurus spat the last word. 

Tarn felt hurt. Worse. He felt as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff, where one wrong step would cause him to fall. He was in a bad place, and any mistake would make it much, much worse. 

But what was the mistake? 

Sacrificing everything for Megatron? 

Or losing Deathsaurus? 

Tarn’s words fell from his lips like lead slag. “I’ll stop bothering you, then,” he whispered, realizing only as he said it that these calls had started with _Deathsaurus_ bothering _him_. 

Deathsaurus didn’t bother to hide his wince, or his frown. “I didn’t say I didn’t _like_ you,” Deathsaurus said, “or that I don’t want to talk to you. I said there’s no future in any kind of courtship between us.” 

Tarn stared into his monitor. Into the image of Deathsaurus’s optics. “I don’t understand the difference.” 

Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Why do you have to ruin a good thing with hypothetical questions?” He leaned closer to the screen. “Isn’t it enough to make the most of a moment while it lasts?” 

“I…I…” Tarn stammered, feeling awkward under Deathsaurus’s intense scrutiny. “I suppose I wanted to see if this was a _delusion and wish_ , as you put it. Before I got any more invested.” 

Deathsaurus’s expression softened. “Oh. You thought I was still messing with you.” 

“Precisely.” 

“It _is_ the sort of thing I would do.” Deathsaurus looked thoughtful. “And that would be a problem if you felt…” 

Deathsaurus left the sentence hanging, prompting Tarn to answer. Tarn cleared his throat. “If I felt that you might actually like _me_ , as opposed to the entertainment you clearly derive from annoying people.” 

“I do like you.” Deathsaurus said it so simply, so openly. “I confess, I _am_ the sort of mech to mess with people for fun, but to make them fall in love with me so I could toy with them…that’s not something I would do.” 

“Ethics?” 

“Or that I’m too ugly, and utterly lacking in charm, to even make the attempt.” He double-blinked both sets of optics. “But yes, also ethics.” Deathsaurus tilted his head to the other side this time. “So what about yours?” 

“Mine?” Tarn repeated blankly. He half-chuckled. “Do you know how _backwards_ this is. Someone else grilling _me_ about standards and ethics, I…” 

But his voice choked off. 

_Deathsaurus._

_Megatron._

He was already neck-deep in treachery. He knew. He’d designed the scale. 

_But if you’re past saving, then why stop now?_

Tarn took a deep breath and discovered that for all his talent, he was not a good enough actor to keep the bitterness from his voice. 

“You spoke of _delusions and wishes_. The longer this lockdown goes on, the longer I suspect that my dynamic with Lord Megatron is perhaps more illusory than you might suspect.” 

“I’ve never doubted your devotion.” 

“Not on my side. On _his_.” 

Again that quizzical head tilt. It was the gesture of a curious predator. 

_Show me more so I can learn…and use what I learn._

But Tarn couldn’t resist sticking his foot into the trap. 

“Do you know he hasn’t come to see me _once_ since the lockdown started. He’s got freedom of movement—he’s been to see Soundwave, Trannis, even _Optimus Prime_ , and not _once_ does he come to Polyhex to see me. It isn’t just that the DJD aren’t exempted from the lockdown—it’s that he can’t even bother to send me a message himself. I’m hearing policy decisions from Soundwave, or from Starscream.” Tarn rubbed his forehead, feeling sick. “He doesn’t take my calls, he doesn’t answer my messages and the entire war is on pause—what else has he got to do?” 

Tarn felt like an idiot talking like this in front of Deathsaurus. Kaon was his usual audience, when Tarn said such things at all. Usually he drowned out the thoughts with transformation binges and too much engex. 

But tonight, Tarn was all too sober. 

“The more I think about it,” Tarn whispered, “the more I think my devotion might be… _one sided_.” 

Tarn bit his lip, expecting sarcasm, or perhaps mockery. Instead, Deathsaurus held his optics in a steady gaze. “So that’s why you’re worried about delusions,” the warlord said quietly. 

Tarn could do nothing but nod. 

“This _is_ a dream,” Deathsaurus said slowly. “When the lockdown lifts, we wake up.” He ran a clawed thumb over the screen, as though he was brushing Tarn’s face in real life. “But a dream is real enough while you’re in it.” 

Tarn’s spark swirled with warmth. Yet his thoughts were more confused than ever. “So you’re saying…” 

“While this lockdown lasts…will you dream with me?” 

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 65_

__

_How are you feeling this morning? –D-336_


	10. Day 66, 67, 68, 69

Chapter 10: Day 66, 67, 68, 69 

__

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 66_

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_Tarn? Are you all right? –D-336_

__

_#_

__

_Are you angry with me? –D-336_

__

# 

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 67_

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_You could at least have the guts to tell me to my face. –D-336_

__

_#_

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 68_

_Don’t expect me to chase after you. –D-336_

__

_#_

__

_Cosmic Rust Quarantine: Day 69_

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_Deathsaurus D-336. Good morning. –Damus_

__

_Good…morning? –D-336_

__

_…did you mean what you said five nights ago? –Damus_

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_I’m in far too deep to lie about anything of consequence where this topic is concerned. –D-336_

__

_I’m sorry. Sorry I made you worry. I’m fine. But… –Damus_

__

_But? –D-336_

__

_I shouldn’t have disappeared on you like that. It was wrong of me. I’m sorry. –Damus_

__

_If you’re truly sorry, tell me why you did it. –D-336_

__

_I hardly know myself. You, me…it’s a lot to wrap my head around. –Damus_

__

_Call me. –D-336_

_What, tonight? –Damus_

__

_I assume you’re busy now? --D-336_

__

_Damned work. Yes. But I’m free tonight. –Damus_

__

_We’ll talk then. –D-336_

__

_#_

__

Tarn took a deep breath into his vents as he sat in front of his deactivated screen. It didn’t help. His neural net pulsed with erratic bursts of energy. The bottle of engex at his side was half-empty, and it had done nothing to calm him down. He didn’t dare do Nuke. He felt like he’d had a hit already. A bad hit. He was shaky and anxious and his sensory system was on the verge of going haywire. 

Why was he _like_ this? 

He’d had a lovely night and then ghosted Deathsaurus for four days. 

How come? 

It couldn’t be shame. They hadn’t _done_ anything. Not anything to be ashamed of, at any rate. 

Perhaps it was that Tarn had been _willing_ to do something shameful. Like pop his panels and put on a show for Deathsaurus. Or watch Deathsaurus do something like that to tease _him_. Or confess their deepest fantasies. 

What they’d actually _done_ was quote _Goldensword_ lines at one another. Deathsaurus had gone straight for the couplets from _Goldensword’s Conjunx_ and Tarn had been absolutely enchanted. Before long they were reenacting the most romantic moments from the entirety of the operettas. Then Deathsaurus started changing the words. “Goldensword” now had a Warworld, and “Silverspear” a ship called the _Peaceful Tyranny._ They’d stayed up way too late and signed off reluctantly for a couple hours’ recharge before morning. 

Tarn didn’t know if it was romantic or ridiculous. What he _did_ know was that he’d gone to recharge with a fluttery feeling in his chest, and woke up in the morning feeling guilty. 

_Why_ ? 

_You cheated on Megatron, you absolute scum. Where’s your loyalty?_

_Loyalty is supposed to be your_ job _. Isn’t that what Megatron asked of you?_

Tarn realized, with a sinking sense of dismay, that Megatron had never asked him for the intimate kind of loyalty. It was _Tarn—Damus—_ who’d freely offered Megatron everything he had. Megatron had done the favour of accepting it, and Tarn should have been grateful for the chance to serve Megatron in whatever capacity Megatron desired. _Had_ been grateful. 

But Megatron had never quoted _Goldensword_ to him. 

_What would you rather have? Megatron telling you_ well done _? Or Deathsaurus with his foolish grin and clever ad libs?_

Primus help him. He didn’t know. 

What he _did_ know was that ghosting Deathsaurus had been needlessly cruel. But Tarn had no way to explain his reasons. He didn’t even fully understand them himself. 

And he had no time to think of something to say. His ability as a smooth talker had utterly deserted him just when he needed it most. 

It was time, as he often told his victims, to face the music. 

Tarn activated the call button. 

Of course Deathsaurus picked up right away. 

Deathsaurus didn’t look angry. He didn’t look hurt, either, at least not the emotional kind of hurt. He was still in the medbay, still missing an optic. The other three optics regarded Tarn with a steady gaze. 

With a sinking feeling, Tarn realized that he had missed Deathsaurus’s snarky comments and roguish grin, and the sparkle in his optics when he was intentionally being a jackass because he thought it was funny. Tarn realized that at some point he, too, had started finding it amusing. When he chided Deathsaurus, he was no longer serious either. He was simply playing his part in their mutual game. 

Tonight, Deathsaurus was serious, and Tarn didn’t know what to do. 

Deathsaurus cocked his head questioningly. It was the only hint Tarn had as to what the warlord might be feeling. 

Tarn sighed. Deathsaurus wasn’t the sort to concern himself with niceties. 

“I don’t know why,” Tarn said. 

Deathsaurus kept watching him in silence. Tarn tried to take heart from the fact that Deathsaurus wasn’t overly hostile. 

“I’m supposed to be Megatron’s,” Tarn said quietly. “I’m…I pledged him everything.” 

Finally, Deathsaurus raised an optic ridge. “I thought we agreed that what we did last night was make-believe. Something that had no bearing on our real lives.” 

Tarn let out a deep breath. “I felt guilty,” he said quietly, “and that feeling was real.” He drew in a ragged breath. “First I felt guilty for playing with you when I’m sworn to Megatron’s service. Then I felt guilty for ghosting you. You didn’t deserve it. “ 

Deathsaurus was silent, but his three remaining optics watched Tarn intently. 

Tarn drew a deep breath, summoning his courage for what came next. “Am I to understand that you didn’t feel anything at all? Just vague annoyance, perhaps? At least I’m simply one diversion out of many for a Warworld commander?” 

“You know you aren’t.” Deathsaurus’s words were cutting. “Yes, I missed you. Yes, the silence hurt. But it’s not fair of me to blame you for that. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“Don’t I?” 

Deathsaurus looked at Tarn sharply. “What do you want me to say? I tried _this is make-believe and nothing we do matters_. So how about _this is real, and still, none of it matters_? You’re still going to try to kill me; I’m still going to try to kill you first. What’s the point in me admitting that I feel hurt when it doesn’t change a damned thing?” 

Tarn felt exasperated. “Can you at least admit that you _wish_ things were different?” 

“Why?” Deathsaurus was blunt. His optics sparked fire. “What the hell good will _wishing_ do?” 

Tarn forced himself to keep his voice level. “Because I’d love to know what the world would be like if you had your way. What it would mean for _us_ if the circumstances were different.” 

Deathsaurus pressed his lips together in a frown. “I haven’t thought about it. I’ve devoted my time to surviving in the world I’ve got.” 

Slowly, Tarn began to realize that Deathsaurus saw the universe from a very different perspective. Tarn suspected that he could dream himself into just about anything, whereas Deathsaurus very rarely dared to dream at all. 

“Five nights ago,” Deathsaurus said slowly. “Five nights ago was the closest I’ve ever come to indulging myself in fanciful nonsense. When you went dark, yes, it hurt, but I had it coming, didn’t I? I started playing games with you knowing that the more fun I had, the more I came to enjoy talking to you, the more painful it would be in the end. I saw the warning lights when I actually started to _like_ you, but I didn’t stop.” 

“Why not?” Tarn whispered. 

“Because I wanted to try it, just this once,” Deathsaurus replied. His optics blazed, three steady beacons. “Because I wanted to know what it would be like to _flirt_ and _play_ like that. The way I see other people doing. The luxury I’ve never had. That was my choice, and I own the consequences.” 

Tarn blinked. “What, you’ve never had a date before?” 

Deathsaurus snorted. “We’re MTOs. We don’t do _dates_. You frag your comrades in trenches and supply sheds, alleyways and in the back of transports, just to remind yourselves you’re both alive. You frag them to catch a taste of what it’s like when someone else is kind to you—or to remember what it’s like when _you_ do something other than kill. You frag the people you know, the people you fight with, the people you live with. Sometimes you fall in with someone who wants to be your lifemate.” Deathsaurus shrugged. “And sometimes that bond dies before either of you do.” 

“How dare…” Tarn cut himself off. “You’re not talking about me and Megatron, are you?” 

“No,” Deathsaurus said mildly. “I was talking about my own experience. Why I don’t date. It doesn’t go well for me.” He paused. “Perhaps that’s why I started tormenting you. You were safe.” 

Tarn couldn’t help a grin under his mask. He was sure it was audible in his voice, too. “This is the first time I think anyone has ever described the DJD as _safe company_.” 

“Fighting I understand.” Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Flirting, I don’t. Who better to practice with than someone who could never, ever return my feelings?” His wings sagged. “I wasn’t surprised when you hurt me. I expected it, to be honest. Just perhaps not this soon.” 

“I didn’t want to,” Tarn blurted. “I didn’t _intend_ to. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts about Megatron and the enormity of what I’d done with you.” 

“The enormity.” Deathsaurus tilted his head. “Over a few lines of poetry?” 

“Over _feeling_ the way I did. There’s not supposed to be any room in my emotions for anyone who isn’t Megatron.” 

“Not even your team?” 

“Well, yes, my team,” Tarn admitted. “But not _above_ Megatron. Megatron must always come first.” 

“I suppose that says something about you,” Deathsaurus replied. “I just don’t know what. On one hand, clearly you believe strongly in your choices. You’ll keep the faith with Megatron no matter how much he lets you down. That says a lot for your loyalty.” 

Tarn could barely make sense of his emotions. Deathsaurus praising his faithfulness made him glow with pride. Yet he also felt the urge to cringe with rejection. To continue to be that faithful, he would have to stop flirting with Deathsaurus. Was that what Deathsaurus wanted? Would flirting with Deathsaurus make Deathsaurus despise him for being unfaithful? 

“But…” Deathsaurus continued. “It doesn’t say much for your strategic analysis. Your relationship with Megatron _hurts_ you. It causes you pain and distress. Yet you keep going back for more.” He tilted his head curiously. “I admit my observations are limited and perhaps I am simply not seeing the times when Megatron is supportive, affectionate, appreciative, attentive…” 

Tarn hated— _hated_ —the way his optics welled up with light. All his acting skills were not enough to keep them from spilling over. He wondered if Deathsaurus could see what was happening under his mask. 

“Isn’t that how you know it’s love?” Tarn asked with anguish. “Because it hurts?” 

Deathsaurus did a clear double take. His talons clutched the mattress of his hospital slab. “Is _that_ how you can tell?” 

Tarn immediately regretted what he’d said. “I…” He swallowed hard. “There’s part of me that says that’s not right. That it _can’t_ be right. But everything I’ve experienced tells me it is.” He thought about all his previous crushes. Fortissimo, and Skids, and then…then Megatron, the great love of his life. “I must confess that Megatron is not the only mechanism I’ve ever had feelings for.” 

“The others, do those emotions vie for Megatron’s attention?” 

“Never.” 

“So you _can_ move on.” 

“I suppose, yes.” Tarn hesitated. “That doesn’t mean you’d want to move on with me. Look what I’ve done. How long before I do it again?” 

Because he _would_ screw up. It was only a matter of time. The scar on his face served as a reminder that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how strong he became, sooner or later he was _going_ to screw up. 

He was still Damus under the armour. There was no fixing the truth of him. 


End file.
